


Home

by winterwonderland



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwonderland/pseuds/winterwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road home is long and winding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story should work okay as a stand-alone, but it is in the same ‘verse as the other canon ones I've written.

 

Nasir steps towards the river and carefully kneels down at water’s edge. There are splatters of blood running from elbow to fingertips, and he does his best to scrub the grime from his hands, flinching only slightly when the cold water first hits his sun-warmed skin. A soft breeze blows in the air, and as he lets his gaze stray to the view before him, he can see the sun’s light reflecting from the surface of the stream, a pair of dragonflies skimming the water, a willow tree bending gently in the wind. Such a moment of peace and quiet is hard to find, and Nasir would do well not to take such things for granted.

“Fuck the fucking gods! Fuck!”

He closes his eyes and sighs as the familiar voice once more rings loud behind him.

“Useless piece of rusty shit! I would do better armed with a child’s toy than this!”

Nasir leans one knee on the sand and turns his head back to look at the other man, who is now stubbornly glaring at the knife lying on the ground at his feet.

“And you are certain it is the tool that is at fault and not the man?” he asks, and the glare once aimed at the weapon is quickly directed at him instead.

“You try holding that fucking thing with this,” Agron grumbles, raising his right hand to demonstrate his plight as if Nasir has never been made aware of it before.

He has been.

“Then use the other hand,” Nasir answers evenly.

“Such concern warms the heart,” Agron scoffs, as dry as he may, but leans down to pick up the knife in his left hand nonetheless. And Nasir smiles to himself.

It is never lack of sympathy that drives his words but knowledge of the man he has come to share his life with; Agron does not take to coddling well and even worse does he take to pity. And Nasir of all people knows better than to question such disposition. He himself has had enough pity thrown at him to last a lifetime; it is a bitter burden to bear.

“You have fared well it seems,” Agron says then, with a far lighter tone and a pointed look towards the carcass hanging from the makeshift beam behind them, “A hog like that is not an easy find.”

“It is only your land that is generous with its rewards,” Nasir replies quietly, casting his eyes briefly to the woods standing tall behind them. And it is true; these lands have provided them bountifully with crop and meat for some time now. He has quickly come to share Agron’s views of the worth of his homeland.

Agron nods slowly in agreement and flips the knife over in his hand. The weapon nearly slips from grip, but at the last moment he is able to catch hold of it again. “She cares for her own.”

The words are spoken with such earnest sincerity that this time Nasir can only chuckle in return as he raises his eyebrow at the other man. “I would not yet deem myself as such.”

A heartbeat of silence falls and Agron flicks his gaze from the weapon to Nasir’s face again.

“So what, then?” he asks with a sudden teasing tilt to his voice that matches Nasir’s own. “Are you to tell me I am now sharing my bed with a Gaul?”

“I should hope not. Our tent is crowded enough as is.”

He ignores the look Agron shoots his way and turns his attention back to the other side of the river where their campsite now sprawls over the sandy banks.

“We are a varied clan with only a handful of your kin among us,” he continues with a sigh as his stare lingers upon the sight before them, “I am merely cautious over how this land will receive such people and their claim.”

The past two seasons of travel have considerably thinned their numbers – as planned – and now there only stand a good dozen tents left beside Nasir’s and Agron’s own. Those still among them are mostly women and children and those too old or too injured to set up a life of their own alone in the wilderness or to travel to more familiar lands. A people born not of shared blood or ancestry but of shared circumstance.

Their people.

“Kin is not all,” Agron says from behind him, and Nasir turns back to see that the crease between his brows has deepened once more. There is an even more stern set to the man’s face these days, a permanent line etched on his forehead and a new heaviness in his gaze, found somewhere along the endless mountain paths and gorges and snowy hilltops. Yet it is not all there for sorrow or regret over yesterday, Nasir knows. They both share a sense of duty for the morrow now that weighs almost heavier on their shoulders, and perhaps will do so for as long as they walk this earth.

Agron’s eyes lower back down to the blade in his hand. “Not all bonds are forged in shared blood, yet they stand just as sacred.”

Silence resumes and Nasir looks down to his own hands yet submerged in the stream. The running water has washed the blood away a long time ago.

“Do you ever wish you had…” But the words run away from him like the water running through his fingers.

“Do I wish for what?”

Nasir turns back to the other man, who is still absentmindedly fiddling with his knife, now testing the blade against a nearby willow branch. It is clear that though his left hand is far from being fully his own, he is truly faring far better than Nasir has seen him do since…since…

He draws in a breath and shakes his head. “Nothing…it is nothing.”

There is no reason now to open yet barely covered wounds.

He shakes the water off his hands and rises to his feet, when he suddenly feels Agron’s hand on his shoulder. He turns around to find the man standing far closer to him than he had been expecting. Despite his size, the man has a surprising talent for stealth, Nasir has come to learn.

“If there is glory in death, then surely there must be some in life as well,” he says solemnly. And Nasir can but wonder how the man is able to read his mind so easily – when he wishes to, at least.

Slowly, Agron’s eyes drift from Nasir’s face to the other side of the river, where Sibyl is sitting in the company of two other women, one of them with child as Sibyl herself is, the other with her baby already at her breast.

“A debt yet to be paid as much as a gift received.”

“I would not disagree.”

Nasir feels the hold on his shoulder tighten, so he looks back at the other man. Agron runs his thumb along his neck to wipe away the blood splatters there, and Nasir’s eyes flutter close for a moment, and when he opens them again, Agron is already leaning in so close that their noses are almost touching. And Nasir tilts his head up further until their lips touch as well.

“Apologies...”

Agron sighs and hangs his head, breaking the kiss that barely ever began, while Nasir, ignoring Agron’s grumbling, turns his attention to Laeta who is now walking down the bank towards them.

“Agron, I would have your counsel,” the woman begins when she comes to a halt at the riverside. “The water by the creek seems too shallow and we are at a loss as to where else to go to lower the traps.”

“I fear you but wish to see me drowned, woman.”

“Nothing of the sort, such delightful presence as your own would be far too sorely missed.”

Nasir snorts at the tone and Agron only glares at the woman harder. And Laeta smiles at them both and then turns to leave again. “Please make haste, Agron. I would have it done before we lose all daylight.”

“I better go.”

“Yes, you better had.”

Agron returns the smile and lets his knuckles graze along Nasir’s jawline and then finally cups his chin. “Just know that I meant every word.”

Nasir nods. Then more moving shadows catch his eye and he glances over Agron’s shoulder to see Belesa walking over along the river bank with a flurry of children at her heel.

“Agron, there you are! Laeta said she wished to see you.”

Hardly able – or willing – to hide his amusement any longer, Nasir chuckles out loud as he watches Agron close his eyes and run a hand harshly over his face.

“Yes, yes, I am coming!” he shouts back, sounding more than a little exasperated now, and Nasir can only smile wider. The man then turns back to him with a thinly veiled groan.

“I thought myself blessed for never having to take a wife,” he mutters with a roll of his eyes, “and now look at me, plagued with a never ending line of such creatures.”

“Tell that to Laeta and you will soon find yourself absent tongue.”

Agron scoffs at that but takes Nasir by the shoulder nevertheless to draw him closer and then quickly presses his lips to his hair in parting. “I will be back shortly…gods willing.”

The man then stomps his way up the riverbank, and Nasir watches his retreating back for a moment before turning his attention to the children now milling about at his feet.

“So tell me, what do you know of skinning a boar?”

  


* * * * *

  


Agron wades a little further in the water, hissing as the freezing cold hits patches of new dry skin.

“I cannot see it from here,” he shouts out over his shoulder, “perhaps it was taken by the stream.”

He peers at the murky water at his feet, kicking up more mud as he takes another step. But the runaway trap yet escapes his eyes.

“You stand on higher ground, perhaps you could tell me where to look.”

He strains his ears over the sound of running water, but Laeta stays quiet behind him and Agron curses to himself once more. He has never known the woman to hold her tongue before, and _now_ she deems such thing appropriate? He scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief. _Fucking women._

“Laeta?”

When he still receives no reply, he finally turns around to face her; water splashing around him as he moves and irritation bristling hot under his skin. But the fire within is quickly tempered by the sight before him. And soon, his blood runs colder than even the river still freezing his ankles and toes.


	2. Chapter 2

Nasir follows after the other two as they make their way along the riverfront, frustration and the slow build of anger aiding his step. The sun will soon lower behind the hills, and there is still so much yet to be done at the campsite; they cannot waste any more precious moments of daylight, and Agron has already been away for far too long.

Nasir curses silently as they come round another bend and still the riverbank stands empty before them. He should never have let the fucking man slip out of sight.

“Are we close yet?” he asks Belesa beside him, but it is Icorix who answers first.

“Here,” the young man says eagerly, pointing forward with his cane and then hastening his uneven step. “This is where I last saw them.”

They come to a stop by the creek, and Nasir’s eyes study the view in front of him, but there is nothing out of norm to be seen. No pebble or rock seems to be amiss, no blade of grass broken, and even if he strains his ears, all there is to hear is the sound of running water and the wind in the trees.

“And you are certain of this?”

“I may be without one leg but not without mind,” Icorix answers with a sudden affronted scowl. “This is where they were.”

Nasir lets his gaze sweep the bank around him a moment longer, yet it does not bring him different results. And so, finally, he can do little more than sigh in defeat.

“They must have moved further upstream, then.”

And he is ready to follow in their footsteps, when something suddenly holds his eye in the reeds by the water. The steel catches the golden light of the sun, and he frowns, walking closer.

“What is it?” Belesa asks somewhere behind him, but it is suddenly difficult to hear her over the fresh rush of blood pounding in his ears.

“Is that not Agron’s?” Icorix says over Nasir’s shoulder, but Nasir still does not answer, only leans down slowly and takes the weapon in his hand.

Its blade covered in crimson.

He straightens his back without a word, and then for a moment, he holds the knife a little tighter in his hand, closes his eyes and has to swallow against the newfound dread closing on his throat, tight enough to nearly choke him alive there and then. And for that moment he is nearly certain that even the ground beneath him ceases to exist, along with everything else.

 _Not like this_. _Not here. Not now. Please gods, not_ _ **now**_ _._

“Nasir...”

It is Belesa’s touch on his shoulder – gentle yet firm – that is enough to shake him from darker thoughts and bring mind and body back to action again. If he has learned one thing during all his time in battle and war, it is that death is not presumed until you have seen the evidence with your own eyes. Especially so in Agron’s case. Nasir has been fooled by the gods before, and this time he shall not sit idly by and let them do their worst.

“Take to the others and give word that we are watched,” he says to Icorix, who has stepped up to stand at his side, his eyes still fixed on the knife in Nasir’s hand.

“Then I will come back with Luisa and Shafar to–”

With a heavy heart, Nasir raises his hand to stop him. “If attack comes, they are all needed at the camp. We hardly have fighters to spare the way things stand.”

The youth looks back wide-eyed and Nasir takes a deep, steadying breath. “If I am not back by first light, you are all to move as planned. Do not stay here a moment longer than is needed. These woods are not safe.”

“Nasir, I will not...”

But he is not of a mind to hear another word, and the fire within that he has so far been able to tamp down finally grows to a blaze, even if only for a blink of an eye.

“Learn to take a fucking order!”

He sees Icorix flinch at the words, at the tone of his voice, sees him instinctively reach for his scar in a gesture so familiar that were it in any other circumstances, seeing it now would sting Nasir himself. Yet he does not have the time to sooth and explain; it will have to wait for later.

 _Later_...If such a thing is to exist at all.

“Go now,” he says in a more tempered tone, but Icorix only avoids his eyes, nodding shortly. He then turns on his heels without further word and limps his way back along the river, quickly enough that soon his back has already disappeared from sight. Nasir turns to Belesa then.

“You should take your leave as well, there is little for you to do here any longer and I must be on my way.”

The woman’s hand brushes over the blade hanging from her belt. “If you only think me to be more of aid than hinder, I would rather stay.”

Nasir ponders the offer for a moment before finally nodding his head in reply. “Then let us move. I can see some trails taking to the east.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“So, what are your thoughts now?”

Agron pulls at the leather around his wrists, hard enough that the twine digs into his flesh, and only glowers further. “That I have had enough of their fucking hospitality. I think it is time we took our leave.”

Laeta turns her gaze to the men by the fire a little further away from where they sit. Agron can see a subtle line slowly forming on her forehead.

“You would kill them?”

And he cannot help but huff a laugh at her tone, no matter the circumstances. “You sound as if I have never killed before.”

“You did not kill the ones that attacked us by the river,” she says, and the crease between her brows only deepens at the words.

“One more move from me and you would have found yourself without a head. I doubted that was your wish, woman, or was I wrong?” He still keeps tugging his wrists as he speaks, but it is clear such efforts are in vain, and he can only huff in frustration as his hands yet stay bound behind his back.

“I thought it was because they stand as kin.”

Agron follows her line of sight and then stills his struggling and truly looks at the men for a moment. Young and arrogant and full of pride over land and territory. And he knows it could have very well been him and Duro there – in another life, perhaps. And he sighs without fully knowing why.

“They may be kin, yet there are those who stand closer to heart. I would not have them set upon you all.”

Silence falls between them for a moment, until Laeta finally turns to him again. Firelight births shadows on her face, but Agron would almost swear there is a hint of a smile on her face. An odd thing for certain – in the circumstances.

“Then let us take our leave,” she says and lifts her leg over his bent knees.

And for a moment all he can do is stare at his lap in sheer bafflement. Yes, he has known women to be a strange breed, yet this truly goes beyond all understanding.

“And what am I to fucking do with that?”

This time the smile upon her lips is unmistakable, forcing Agron’s eyes to narrow so much it is now nearly difficult to see.

“I have come to carry a blade in my shoe,” she explains quietly, keeping their yet oblivious captors in her sights as she speaks. And when she glances at him again, there is a knowing look in her eyes. “The road here has been long, Agron,” she concludes simply.

And although Agron has never thought himself one to know the mind of this woman – or indeed any woman – this time he feels certain he knows exactly of what she speaks. He looks at the booted leg in front of his eyes for a heartbeat longer, and then he looks back over to his side.

“Never in my life had I thought I would have the desire to kiss either a woman or a Roman, but know that I now find myself ready to do both.”

“And I rather you did neither,” Laeta replies in similar tone. “Now hurry, before they find themselves absent drink and come seek us out for entertainment.”

It takes maneuvering, that is for certain, with their awkward position and Agron’s stiff hands and all the while needing to make sure they move quietly enough that their attempts are not discovered. But in the end, their efforts do yield results and they both are finally freed from their ties. And no later, Agron turns to Laeta again.

“Go and warn the others,” he says in a stern whisper before glancing over to the fires again. “It is better if you all take to the night. I do not know how many more of their men there are hidden in the woods.”

“And you?”

For a blink of an eye, the words nearly stick in his throat. There is a part of him that wishes little more than to run from here, go find Nasir and lead the two of them as far as possible from these woods and as quickly as their feet take them. The rest be damned.

But as Laeta herself said, the road here has been long and Agron, too, has learned some lessons along the way. And so it does not take him much longer until he finds his voice again.

“I will stall them as I am able.”

Knowing the state of his hands and his inability to properly hold any weapon, he understands there is some chance it will be the last thing he will ever do in this world. Then again, such understanding is not necessarily a new thing to face in the precarious lives they lead. He can only hope his fists will at least be of aid long enough for Laeta to find herself away from here and back to the others.

But the woman beside him stays where she sits and looks back at him with even eyes.

“The others would have learned of our absence by now, they do not need to be warned. And I am certain Nasir is in search of us as we speak. We should find out how many more there are, and if they have any plans to strike the camp.”

Their stare holds for another moment, until Agron gives out a resigned sigh and Laeta a determined nod of her head in acknowledgement.

“So what is the plan?”

Agron’s eyes stray to a pile of firewood a little further away, sitting forgotten between them and the men yet keeping company around the flames.

“How well can you wield an axe?”


	3. Chapter 3

It is difficult to navigate the narrow path in the darkness that has quickly fallen around them, and Nasir nearly trips on his feet again, cursing low under his breath. That is when he suddenly catches sight of firelight glowing from behind the bend and halts his step. His stop is abrupt enough that Belesa now stumbles against his back.

“What is it?” she whispers in his ear, and Nasir gives way for her to see for herself, not wishing to speak in case it would alert anyone who might be close enough to hear.

They slow their step even more after that and make their way up the hill as quietly as they can. Not even a twig is to snap under their feet as they walk.

The lone man is standing guard on a cliff’s edge and looking down at the river valley below, his torch standing some way away, wedged between two rocks. Nasir takes a careful look around him, but there is no sign of more fighters to be seen, and it soon seems clear the ledge stands otherwise empty. He takes a better hold of his spear and then gestures silently at Belesa to go around the hill to reach the cliff from the other side.

With her dagger in her hand, the woman soon disappears in the darkness, while Nasir himself finally steps closer to the light.

“Who goes there?”

The man’s voice is deep and gruff, suiting his imposing appearance well.

Nasir slowly walks into view, keeping the whole of the cliff in his sights, just in case. Yet it seems he was correct before, and the two of them are here alone.

“I would not come any closer, stranger,” the German continues, his own weapon already drawn and ready to strike. “State your business now, lest you wish to do so absent fucking head.”

A part of Nasir is slightly surprised at the man’s willingness to still keep on speaking. He would have fully expected to be forced to give his greetings with his spear rather than his tongue.

“I am in search of the rest of your people,” he answers evenly, looking the far bigger man straight in the eye as he takes another step towards him. “I am only in need of some answers. We do not need to fight over them.”

The older man scoffs and then suddenly lowers his weapon and makes a point of running his gaze up and down Nasir’s height. There is a newfound smirk on his bearded face.

“And what if I do not agree with such sentiment, little man?”

The smirk on his lips is soon met with an even more vicious one upon Nasir’s own as he raises his spear. Though as their weapon’s clash, it is soon clear that the other man’s show of confidence is not completely absent reason and that he is not without strength or skill of sword himself – but, that said, a gladiator he is not.

And it is true that it has been some time since Nasir last had to use his spear in quite this way, but such skill is hardly one to slip away from mind that easily. So it takes not long, before he is already about to sweep his spear under the German’s feet in final attack. And then suddenly his shoes find a loose rock under them, and he stumbles backwards, losing his balance and the stance of his spear. It only takes a blink of an eye, but the other man quickly uses the opportunity and raises his sword to strike once more.

Yet before the weapon has even had time to travel halfway, there is a shriek to be heard in the night air, and then Nasir can see a shadow quickly casting over them both from above. The lithe figure lands on the German’s back, dagger pressing on his throat as the two of them topple over to the ground.

The impact of the sudden attack is enough to even loosen the man’s grip on his sword, but more than that, it is enough to give Nasir time to find his feet again. One of which then quickly finds itself on the German’s throat.

“I do not have quarrel with you,” the man says, fighting for breath, his voice rough and thin under Nasir’s heel. “We would have let you pass through these lands in peace; there is no need for this.”

“No fucking quarrel?” Nasir asks, voice suddenly quivering with barely reined in rage as he presses his foot a little harder against the man’s skin. “Your men have taken two of our people. What is that if not _quarrel_?”

But the German’s face only goes strange at the words, and he looks up at Nasir with an expression that Nasir cannot read as hard as he tries. He would think it true surprise, yet how can that be?

“What? You lie, stranger. That was never–”

“I am here fighting you in the night for my pleasure, is that what you think? I speak the truth.” Nasir digs his spearhead under the man’s chin for emphasis. “Now give answer, where do your men keep camp?”

“Let me fucking breathe and I will tell you.”

Nasir stares at his face for a heartbeat before giving out a hollow laugh. “You see me as a fool as well as a liar?”

“Your woman and you have proven to take me. You cannot think me any more a threat on my feet than on my back.” As Nasir still refuses to move, the man finally gives out a harsh breath. “I assure you my men have not acted upon given order. And I cannot take you to them if I am to lie on my fucking ass, now can I?”

Gradually, Nasir eases his boot from the man’s neck and takes a step back, still keeping his spear tightly in hand as he watches the bigger man’s every move. He knows that beside him, Belesa is doing much the same with her dagger in one hand and the German’s sword in the other. The man then finally staggers to his feet, holding his neck where there is a trickle of blood running down along the skin.

“These people you speak of, they must mean something to you to warrant an attack like this.”

“They mean everything.”

  


* * * * *

  


“Where are the rest? Have you made camp somewhere else in the woods?”

He presses the blade of the axe deeper under the boy’s chin while holding him by the neck with the other hand. In truth its hold is far from tight, but thankfully the young man on the ground is unaware of Agron’s plight, and the threat of the blade cutting skin is yet enough to keep him in place.

“You better fucking loosen tongue, boy, unless you wish to be parted from it.”

“I will say nothing to you, you fucking shit,” the youth spits out, eyes blazing fire, “You can kill me first. I will not betray my brothers.”

And although Agron can respect the sentiment behind such conviction, it will not serve either of them much good this night. So he shifts on the ground, bringing more of his weight over his hand on the boy’s throat, watching with grim approval as the color on his face begins to change.

“Now, tell me, wh–”

“Agron!”

It is Laeta’s voice that interrupts his questioning, and he quickly looks up at the woman standing guard at his side.

“People are coming,” she explains with a hurried nod of her head towards the other side of the clearing.

And as Agron follows her line of sight, he sees approaching shadows at the edge of the woods and curses long and hard under his breath. A timing so perfect it must have been arranged by the fucking gods themselves.

Knowing he now has more pressing matters on his hands, he turns back to the youth under his grip to finish what he had started. The young man is wearing a widening smirk and Agron quickly returns the favor with one measured swing of the wooden handle of the axe. And soon enough the smirk fades away as the boy goes limp before him.

There was a time when he would have used the other end of the weapon without question, this he knows. Agron would rather not dwell on the cause of such newfound softness, and thankfully he does not have the time now in any case.

He gets to his feet, still holding the axe in his left hand, as tight as he is able.

“You stand ready?” he asks the woman, and she nods and raises the sword in her hands and quickly widens her stance again. It is not quite the right position, but it will do. And Agron will not fault her for her lack of finesse; her skills have proven to be of perfectly adequate use already.

But as the shadows come closer, Agron begins to realize there is something wrong in what he sees. To begin with, there is far fewer of them as he would have expected, but also, these figures seem strangely familiar, and he peers into the darkness in his confusion to try and make sense of what he is looking at.

“Odd,” Laeta says beside him, “It almost seems as if that is...”

And then the three people finally walk close enough that the light from the fire finally catches a patch of familiar dark skin.

“Nasir...”

And Agron slowly lowers the axe to his side, sighing in an overwhelming relief, a sentiment that he quickly sees returned on the Syrian’s face as the man walks closer still.

“Are you hurt?” Nasir asks with an ever-growing frown upon his forehead when they are once more standing face to face. He casts one look at the body on the ground, yet quickly turns his attention back to Agron again, his hand grabbing Agron’s chin to have a better look at the cut now running across his cheek.

“But a scratch,” Agron answers evenly, noticing the other man has acquired some new scratches of his own this night.

“And I am without wound as well,” Laeta says beside them, in a tone of voice that finds Agron’s lips curving to a smile in spite of his best efforts to the contrary.

And Nasir then turns to her and briefly takes her arm in acknowledgement. “Apologies,” he says appeasingly, “You have fared well, then?”

She returns his smile and shrugs, flipping the sword in her hand with what almost looks like ease. “I yet stand, do I not?”

Agron is about to give the expected if not unsolicited reply to such words, but the attempt is quickly thwarted before he ever began.

“Your friends say you are Agron, born and raised in these lands.”

The sudden voice booming in the air has Agron turn from the other two and look over Nasir’s shoulder at the stranger standing among them under Belesa’s watch. He is a tall man of wide build and with a dark beard framing his rugged face. Roughly Agron’s age, perhaps some summers older, and Agron can tell by his demeanor alone, if not by the clothes he wears – and the impressive sword he sees in Belesa’s hand – that he is to be far higher in position in his clan than the young men who ambushed them by the river.

Agron finally peels Nasir’s fretting hand away and takes a step forward, until firelight finally finds the stranger’s face and he can see more clearly.

“These are your men?” he asks in return, in German himself.

The other man stays still for a moment longer as their eyes meet and then huffs out a laugh as he makes a show of looking around him. “Men? I fear I only see one.” He nods his head towards the one sprawled on the ground. “Have you hidden the rest?”

Agron shrugs. “One little cut from an axe and suddenly they all fled with haste back to their mothers.”

“The reason why one should never send a fucking child to do a man’s work,” the other man replies and shakes his head in disappointment. “Had it been me, you would already be absent life, you useless fuck.”

“And I would wish to see you fucking make attempt,” Agron says evenly and then gestures vaguely at the body behind him. “Apologies for the boy. Needed to teach him a lesson.” He taps the handle of his weapon against his palm to further make his point.

And the other man only laughs again. “I would not worry. The little shit has a skull as hard as an ox. He will be up and fighting you before morrow comes.”

After that they stay quiet, staring at each other for one moment longer, fully oblivious to the three pairs of questioning eyes around them. And then Agron finally cannot help himself anymore, and he feels his face split into a grin as he offers his arm for the other man to take.

“Rainard.”

“Agron,” the man says in return, and then grasps Agron’s arm and pulls him into a hug that, for a blink of an eye, truly lifts Agron’s own feet off the ground.

“I would have thought you had choked on your tongue by now, you stupid fuck,” Agron says, patting the man on the back as hard as he is able.

“At least I am not stupid enough to let myself be taken by a bunch of children yet wet behind the ears,” the other man replies and then hits Agron’s own back so hard he is almost certain he will end up coughing for the rest of the night.

“Agron...”

It is Nasir’s voice behind him that has him finally pull away from the embrace, and he turns back to the Syrian, only smiling wider when he is met with a look of pure bewilderment on the other man’s face.

“You are of acquaintance?”

“This stupid fuck,” Agron begins, taking Rainard by the shoulder, “is nothing less of a cousin.” And then he cannot help but add with a smirk, “I am sad to say.”

“Yes, a cruel jest by the gods, this one,” Rainard replies in the same vein, giving a nod of his head back towards Agron. “I swear to you all, the rest of our bloodline stands perfectly normal.”

  



	4. Chapter 4

“You and your men have travelled far from home for a simple hunt,” Agron says after another long bout of amicable silence.

Rainard nods slowly in return, ripping another bite off the meat with his teeth.

“It has been a good while since we were last blessed with a proper fight, and the boys were getting restless,” he explains jovially in between chews, “So I thought it best to give the children something to do, before they started killing off each other. Our village is short enough in young blood as it is.”

“We are not fucking children,” Wendel grunts out then, and Rainard shoots him a look across the fire. The boy truly does have a head thicker than a barnyard animal, that much is certain.

“Eat your broth and hold tongue, you stupid shit. And thank your gods you still find yourself among the living.”

The young man scoffs, rubbing his bandaged head, but says nothing more under Rainard’s glare and finally turns his attention back to the bowl in his hand.

Rainard’s eyes fall back upon Agron then, and he can still but marvel at the unknowable ways of the gods as he takes another closer look at the man. For it truly is strange to see a long lost face before him once more, back from long since presumed certain death. Yet also, somehow, it nearly is even stranger to find him alone like this, absent his brother’s company. It is as if there is a hole in the air around them, as if every sentence Agron starts, Rainard still expects Duro to finish. Even after all this time.

But he also understands not to broach such subjects further. He has known enough loss in his own life to know better. Words are not meant to close every gap created by god or man, and some gaps are perhaps forever best left unbridged.

So he leaves his companion to his meal and gives no voice to his ponderings and instead lets his gaze travel further to the campsite stretching around the fires. The hour is long, yet there are still people scurrying around in the cool night air, curiosity over their new guests most likely aiding in the effort.

And it is a curiosity that Rainard heartily returns as his eyes sweep the view before him. There are so many children around he has already lost count of them, children of all shapes and sizes, from those barely able to stand on their own feet to those already standing at half a man’s height. And there are colors of skin among them Rainard has only heard about in tales from those more travelled than someone as simple as him.

Yes, it is a strange clan his cousin has acquired for himself, a strange clan indeed.

A group of women is standing close-by, and he recognizes one of them as the red-haired one they found at Agron’s side earlier in the woods. She stands in the company of a girl with fair hair who is balancing her baby on her hip and yet another girl of darker locks – a delicate little thing, even with her stomach rounded so wide it nearly stretches the fabric of her skirt.

And Rainard turns to Agron then with a smile on his lips. A lighter topic of discussion surely is called for after all this talk of death and war.

“So which one is yours then, cousin?”

The other man lowers his cup from his lips and looks back at him with confusion clear upon his face.

“Of what do you speak?” he asks and only frowns further.

So Rainard gives a nod of his head towards the women and offers the man another teasing smile.

“I only wish to be certain, before I try my luck with the wrong one and find myself with a broken nose come tomorrow.”

Agron stares at the group for a heartbeat then turns back to him with a scoff and a roll of his eyes.

“A woman? I only lost my hands to the Romans, Rainard, not my fucking mind.”

Rainard can only stare at him in silence after such strange reply, but he does not have the time to voice his confusion, when another man walks over to the fire, coming to a halt by Agron’s side. He clasps his hand on Agron’s shoulder yet his words are still addressed in Rainard’s direction.

“I wish to offer apologies for earlier,” he starts, “I but hope it will not bring bad blood between us.”

But Rainard only huffs out a laugh at such sentiment and smiles wider in greeting to the strange little figure who is barely the height of a man yet fights like a handful of them.

“If I knew how to wield a spear like yourself, you would not find me doing much else in this life.”

He hears Agron snort at his side and is about to offer some sort of a retort about his cousin’s own fighting prowess, when he suddenly shuts his mouth again and looks back at the brown-skinned man beside him with newly narrowed eyes. They have already conversed on a few occasions, yet somehow it has taken Rainard this long to question just how they have known to understand one another at all.

“Wait...You know our tongue?”

“Some of it, yes,” the man replies evenly, but his forehead does furrow slightly at Rainard’s question. “Why?”

“I mean no offense, it is only that...” He scratches his beard and takes another look at the man as he speaks. “I have never seen a German quite like yourself before.”

And suddenly the frown between the man’s brows melts away and he gives an easy laugh as he sits down to share the slanted rock Agron is already resting on.

“I am no fucking German,” he says with a smile and steals the cup from Agron’s hand to bring to his own lips, “I merely find myself too often in the company of one.”

Another strange reply, Rainard thinks to himself and then looks at the pair of men a moment longer: side against side, leg against leg, sharing drink and food without a word spoken between them. And then he slowly comes to the realization that, perhaps, Wendel is not the only one with a thick head around this fire, after all.

He catches Agron’s eye just as the man swats away a reaching hand and takes a drink of his cup himself.

“So no wife and child, then?”

“Never.”


	5. Chapter 5

Agron leans his back against the wall and idly folds his arms over his chest as he casts yet another look at the people gathered inside the room. They are mostly elders of the village and men and women of standing in their clan, Rainard among them. And though such state of affairs has been enough to leave Agron scoffing at his cousin in disbelief and jest for days now, in truth he does find himself proud of how far the man has come in life.

For a stupid fuck, that is.

But his ponderings are abruptly interrupted when he feels a hand surreptitiously hitting him on the arm.

“I think they are done,” Nasir whispers to him with a pointed look towards the crowd.

And he is right, for no later they already see Rainard walking over with a wide grin stretching across his face.

“It is decided, cousin” he says, clasping Agron’s arm with one hand and taking his shoulder with the other, “I shall have your answer by morning light, I hope?”

His gaze flits from Agron’s face to Nasir’s and then back again, and Agron follows his example by giving the Syrian a questioning look of his own. The man nods quickly and so Agron turns back to his cousin again.

“We will speak to you then,” he answers and receives another pat on the shoulder in return. And then a third one in parting, before he and Nasir finally take their leave and step out into the open air once more.

“It is a generous offer.”

“Rainard is a generous man,” Agron answers sincerely, as they fall into step along the gravel road winding through the village.

It seems the counsel they have kept has taken them longer than anticipated, and the sun is already setting behind the hills in the west, casting long shadows upon the ground as they walk. The streets are neither bustling nor empty at this time of day, and they do garner some curious looks behind their backs, yet the worst of the curiosity seems to have already withered away by now, and most of the people about are only busy filling more pressing tasks before daylight finally is done. A stray dog idly jogs close to their heel as they keep passing the modest houses and sheds, with cows and sheep bellowing and bleating all around them.

And it is so familiar, Agron thinks to himself, the noises, the smells, the sights... Everything. And yet he cannot recall one dwelling or bend of road and could hardly name any of the faces around them. Then again, when he last saw the place he was but waist-high and it was already half-engulfed in flames. Perhaps, it is not that odd to think that much would have changed since that day.

He knows the village took a long time to rebuild, standing in between warring clans back then. And then there are many familiar faces who, in the end, never returned at all once having fled for their lives to the hills. Like Agron himself.

Until now.

It still is a strange thought to hold.

“So have you come to a decision yet?”

He glances over to the man walking beside him and gives him a look. “Hardly my decision to make.”

Nasir says nothing and they continue their way in silence for a moment longer, until they finally reach the edge of the village where the hillside gently leads down to the valley below.

“You have led us here for a reason, should you not see such promise through and find us a place to rest our feet?”

But Agron only shakes his head at such words as he now looks at the old, weatherworn tents standing upon the plain below.

“I am here only to bring news of my brother and give him the proper funeral he deserves. I am not in position to decide these things for you or for anyone else. Nor do I wish to be.”

“You know these lands far better than I or anyone else among us,” Nasir says then, turning to look at him from under his brow, “If I were to ask for counsel for such decision, what would you say?”

He takes a deep breath and looks back out at the view opening before them: the valley and the woods, and the river glistening gold under the last rays of the setting sun. The familiar colors of land and sky he had thought he had left behind long ago – for good.

Home. If only he was to know the meaning of the word.

“I cannot tell you what to do or think. All I can say is that there are no grounds anywhere in this world I know better and no people I can trust more.” He frowns and keeps his eyes fixed in the distance, until he feels a hand on his arm taking hold firmly and gently at once.

“It is settled then,” Nasir says with a smile, “we shall stay.”

Agron looks at the familiar face before him, looks at the hazel eyes slowly melting into honey under the golden colored sky, looks at the familiar curve of lips, the axe-cut shape of a jaw and the even straighter line of a nose. And yes, of course, he realizes then.

He has known all along.

  


* * * * *

  


A moon or two later...

  


Thunder rumbles behind the hills and the rain begins to pour with even more force, aided by the howling wind that blows across the village, finding every nook and cranny along its deserted roads and alleyways

They run up the path as fast as they are able, but the water is quickly turning everything into mud, and Agron already loses his footing while Nasir only nearly slips upon the slick ground before he finally makes his way to the top of the hill.

“Make haste! I would not wish to drown to death this day!”

Agron’s glare has him only grinning wider, and then he quickly spins back on his heels and continues running along the main street, barely hearing the footsteps behind him over the sound of rain and thunder.

They make it to the house side by side, stumbling over the threshold in one wet tangle of limbs, as the door shuts firmly close behind them.

“Fucking rain,” Agron spits out, shaking water from his hair and throwing his soaking shirt over the bench by the door – the only furniture they have yet garnered in their modest stead, that and the bearskin on the floor acting as a temporary bed. “Thank the gods we at least have a roof over our heads before the season changed.”

Nasir’s hands still at the collar of his shirt, and he looks back at the other man, raising an eyebrow. “So it only took a downpour to have you finally thanking the gods instead of cursing them.”

Agron only rolls his eyes at him in return and crouches down in front of the hearth to rekindle the fire that has not burned since this morning. And Nasir leaves him to his task and goes to finally peel off his own clothes. The air inside is not exactly warm against wet skin, but at least the walls will keep the wind away, and the fire should soon help further in the matter.

“Ah, there we are.”

Agron then gets back to his feet with a subtle groan and Nasir, in turn, leans down to pick up his soaked breeches from the floor.

“Soon I will need another pair,” he says absentmindedly as he keeps poking his fingers through the bigger of the two gaping holes in the fabric.

He hears Agron scoff somewhere behind him. “Perhaps we should fashion a trunk first. Or we will only find ourselves amidst even more of a mess scattered upon the floor.”

“A trunk?” Nasir asks with a chuckle as he picks up a discarded shirt and dries his hair into it the best he is able. “Such a thing hardly travels well, Agron.”

The words slip from his lips out of habit, and he does not even realize the error in his thinking until he feels two arms snaking around his waist and hears Agron’s voice in his ear.

“You have plans to travel, then?” the man teases softly. The warmth of his skin is already a relief against Nasir’s own, and he leans back on instinct as the arms around him tighten their hold. “I wish you had shared words over subject _before_ we built ourselves a fucking house.”

And Nasir laughs gently once more and shakes his head. “I merely spoke out of practice. It is a difficult thing to remember we are to change camps no more. After all this time.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” the other man answers, though he does not sound as if he is exactly paying attention any longer, finding himself somehow otherwise occupied.

“So tell me, what is it like?”

“What is what like?” Agron murmurs back against the skin on Nasir’s neck.

“To have a house.”

And finally, the other man stills his lips, and then Nasir feels him peel them away completely.

“But you have surely lived in one before.”

“I hardly remember a smell or sight of Syria,” he answers, in a more strained voice than he had been expecting to use, “and after that...a prison is hardly a home, Agron.”

The other man sighs deeply, and for a moment Nasir believes he is to draw away for good, but then he feels lips pressing against his shoulder again and Agron’s breath once more ghosting hot upon his skin.

“Well, it is...tedious.”

“Tedious?” It certainly is not the answer Nasir was imagining to hear.

“Yes. The same walls and roof to see the first thing every morning and the last thing at night. The same view to greet you every time you are to step out. Always the same.” He presses another kiss behind Nasir’s ear. “Every fucking day.”

“You hold regret?” And it _is_ tease that sounds loudest in his voice, yet Nasir also knows that deep down he does wonder sometimes. Perhaps they both do.

“We have seen enough changing landscapes to last one or two lifetimes, would you not agree? This will do.”

And that is finally enough for Nasir to peel off Agron’s arms and turn around in his embrace, an eyebrow arching high upon his forehead and a smile tugging desperately at the corners of his mouth.

“It will _do_?”

“It will do _fine_.”

Nasir’s lips do not have the time to give one more reply as they are sealed now with Agron’s own. And no later he is already taking a staggering step backwards, and then another, until Agron’s towering frame has him pushed flush against the wall.

“And it is not the view outside I am partial to in any case.”

And Nasir does not need to see the grin on Agron’s face, he can hear it in his voice. He can feel it already pulling at his own lips.

As Agron’s mouth slowly travels over Nasir’s skin so do his hands, first down his chest, then around and down the back where they finally stop their descend. He takes hold of the flesh there, hauling Nasir higher up the wall, coaxing his thighs to part wider. A wish Nasir quickly acts upon as he wraps his legs around the other man’s waist.

Agron’s stubble scrapes hard against his skin as he tangles his fingers in the man’s hair to better guide his lips. And he lets out a breathless chuckle.

“It has been a long while since I was last fucked against a solid wall.”

The words are careless, spoken in little more than jest. Yet the hidden meaning behind them starts quickly ringing in his ears and it soon is clear the same is true for the other man as well.

He feels Agron go completely still against him, and suddenly silence once more echoes within the four timber walls. Rain whips the sides of the house outside and thunder rumbles in the distance. And then Agron pulls away slowly until at last their eyes meet, his own wide and searching. The man’s face is so achingly vulnerable in a way Nasir knows it only ever is when Agron is looking at him. When they are alone like this and there is no one else to see.

And in that one heartbeat, they both know they remember the same things, think the same thoughts, feel the same pain. Once more. All over again. And then Agron lets out a deep breath and leans back in, resting his head against Nasir’s own.

For a long while they stand still like this, forehead against forehead, sharing the air between them in silence, Nasir’s feet dangling far off the floor. Then Nasir slips his hands from behind Agron’s neck and brings them to cradle his face, fingers fanned wide over flushed skin. And he draws him in for a brief kiss.

“I only wonder if you have built this one strong enough to stand.”

Agron keeps staring at him for a moment longer, barely blinking, surprise evident in every little twitch of muscle in his face. And then he leans back into Nasir, nipping his lips before pulling away only enough to leave a hair’s width of breathing room between them.

“You little shit.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


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